


This Is A Story

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: 1800s, AU, M/M, tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:42:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5538572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I suck at summaries so basically this is a story I promised a friend of mine, a fic about Eggsy as Harry's lover in 19th century London, which may or may not include a rebellion to overthrow the monarchy that may or may not be successful.</p><p>~This story is discontinued, I'm just trying to decide what to do with it. Sorry.~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There is a pub in London that is fairly new, but very popular. Its beer is passable. The company is cordial. The publican pays his taxes and keeps the place in good repair. It is a respectable place.

There are three stories. And on the top one, in the attic, there are two tables. Each table is ringed with chairs. During the day, the attic is empty and quiet. No one goes there. Surely there is no reason to be there. Who would want to spend longer than a few minutes in such a cramped, bare space?

At night, though, people gather there. Men and women, most young and fierce, some old and hard, all tired and angry and fed up. When they gather, these people sit at the tables and murmur. They write, and draw, and calculate. They eat and drink. Occasionally they argue. But all the time, they are planning. No matter what else, they are planning.

There is a young man who hangs back, rarely speaking. His hazel-green eyes flick constantly between his fellows. He is hard even for this gathering. When he speaks, the others listen.

Far, far away, in one of the poshest parts of town, there is a building that is part tailor-shop, part gentlemen’s club. In the dining room of the club, there is one very long table ringed with chairs neatly pushed in. Around this table, men gather. They are all smooth and cold as river-stones; and they too are angry.

There is an older man who sits near the head of the table and the presider, rarely speaking. He is the most elite of those here, and when he speaks, the others listen.

The gulf is wide, and the bridge is narrow. But it can be crossed. It must be crossed. If it is not, it will burn—and the gulf is too wide to build another.

~~~\0/~~~

“I wish you wouldn’t go to those meetings,” mum sighs, putting down the sock she’s darning.

Eggsy does not reply. He bends down to kiss his baby sister’s forehead as she sleeps, then kisses his mum’s cheek. Then he goes over to the fireplace to pry up one of the flat stones of the hearth and dump three coins into the hole underneath. He smacks the stone with the heel of his palm to make sure it seats properly.

“Did you eat dinner?” mum asks, only a little resigned to her son’s silence.

“Yeah,” he answers shortly. “Had a pasty. You?”

“Dean said he’d bring something.”

“He’s drinking every penny he’s got.”

Mum’s hands fist on her mending. “Eggsy…”

“I saw him, mum.” Eggsy stands, keeping his face carefully turned away. “I’ll go get you an’ Daisy somethin’ to eat.”

~~~\0/~~~

Harry knows it’s wrong, but he honestly doesn’t care. He’s still as excited as he ever gets. Actually, a little more excited, because he isn’t going to just have sex; he’s taking his favorite prostitute out to dinner beforehand.

There’s two reasons he’s looking forward to this. One is that his favorite is part of a group that Harry’s informants say wants to start a rebellion. A rebellion that would topple the monarchy, overthrow the old ways—and Harry is very, very tempted to join. But Kingsmen are loyal to the Crown, and Harry is loyal to Kingsman. So he will try, ever so delicately, to pry out details about this infant rebellion.

The second reason for his excitement is that… well… he wants to impress his favorite. He wants to show off. It’s selfish and childish and probably won’t work, but he desperately wants to. Because maybe this will change his favorite’s mind.

He has to be careful, though. He mustn’t get too caught up. This is not like the interviews with other potential paramours past; this is a bribe, a wheedling plea, a middleclass working man trying to convince a common whore that he could do so much better by them. He can’t wear his best suit, can’t purchase expensive wine. But he can do his best to be pleasant and kind and an attractive alternative to a disgusting inn and a cruel pimp.

Harry already has everything planned. He has contingency plans for various disasters. He’s in character, a tailor with threads on his shabby wool coat and trousers and fresh pinpricks in his fingertips. Everything is set, he is ready, he is calm; and the moment he thinks about what to do if his favorite says yes, he forgets everything and eagerly begins to plan _that_ as well.

No, wait, stop. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Harry closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Then he walks out his door, and heads towards the rougher part of town at a brisk walk. He has half an hour to meet up with his favorite. He does not intend to make the other wait.

~~~\0/~~~

After fetching mum dinner, Eggsy stays downstairs by the fire, carving a rattle for Daisy, as mum goes up to the loft with her daughter. It is late, and most “honest citizens” are going to bed.

When he’s sure mum is asleep, Eggsy stands, sets the rattle on his stool, and slips on his boots again. He changes his shirt, too, and puts on his cleanest jacket. His heart is beating a little fast, but he is mostly calm. There’s a reason Eggsy hadn’t eaten much; and the reason is going to be early. He always is.

The night is cool and damp. In this neighborhood, all is dark and quiet; on other streets, such as the one Eggsy’s headed for, the city remains awake. He would be loath to leave his mother’s home unguarded, but there are four-legged dogs out back, and two-legged ones whose loyalty to Dean extends reluctantly to his wife and child. Eggsy is not granted protection. He doesn’t want it. He can protect himself.

He’s off duty tonight, but try telling that to the drunkards who can’t find anyone else. He ducks and dodges and eventually makes it to the corner where he promised to wait for one of his best, um, customers. It’s not the corner he stands at when he’s available, and this isn’t the market Dean’s Dogs patrols. He watches sharply for anyone who might misconstrue his intentions. He is not here to take custom from anyone; he is here on business.

He’s been there for perhaps thirty seconds when his customer appears beside him and asks, “And how are you tonight?”

Eggsy jumps, startled, but forces himself not to punch the other. “Fine,” he answers. “Where’s this place you wanted to go?”

“I thought I would leave the choice to you,” the customer replies.

Eggsy grumbles and scowls a little. He doesn’t understand his own emotions regarding this man. He is taller, and older, and painfully obviously a toff, for all that he dresses like a normal person and acts like one. He’s got a pleasant face, a nice voice, and is very good in bed; he can be gentle or rough and Eggsy likes both.

But he’s gentry, moneyed, probably titled. No matter how reasonable he acts and seems, he’s still an Oppressor. No matter how well he kisses, no matter how much he pays, he’s still one of Them. And there’s his offer…

Yet Eggsy can’t help feeling safe around him.

“I just eat at a stall most nights,” he states, almost a challenge. “Can’t afford much better than that.”

His customer nods thoughtfully. “Do you object to visiting Covent Garden before we decide?” he asks.

“No.”

“Good.”

They don’t speak as they walk, because there is no need to. They’ve often talked softly after sex. How else would Eggsy know it was safe to have a vague sort of liking for the man? Everything important can be discussed later, in a safer, more private room. Eggsy occasionally feels hungry eyes on him, but it isn’t time yet. He can have dinner and maybe give his customer a thank-you gift before returning to his beat for a few more hours.

A man just a little older than Eggsy, obviously soused, swaggers up to him and grins widely.

“He’s with me,” Eggsy’s companion cuts in before Eggsy can even begin to say “bugger off”. “Wait your turn.” Then he grabs Eggsy’s arm and tows him down the pavement, leaving the bewildered would-be customer far behind.

“Don’t do that,” Eggsy snaps, yanking out of the other’s grip. “You ain’t any better than him.”

His face goes very still, and he says quietly, “Sorry. Force of habit.”

Eggsy snorts to hide his sudden unease. He may enjoy this man’s company occasionally, and he may prefer his methods in the bedroom, but he will never be comfortable with all these little “habits”. More reasons to refuse his offer. And yet—

And now they are at Garden. Eggsy hangs back at the edge, reluctant to cross boundaries into territory that belongs to those who have often tried to rape him when he wanders anywhere near. Not every gang is afraid of or does business with Dean.

Eggsy’s customer takes Eggsy’s hand, tucks it in his elbow, and leads the way. Eggsy glances up; his customer glances down and smiles very slightly. It’s a reassuring, territorial smile. If anyone tries to mess with Eggsy, his companion will hurt them very badly. Eggsy’s seen him do it too. So he allows himself to relax a little.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you my name,” his customer murmurs suddenly.

“No, you haven’t,” Eggsy answers. “And I don’t care.”

“Call me Galahad.”

“That ain’t your name.”

“No. But you don’t care.”

Eggsy can’t help a tiny smile. Damn him. Why does he have to be amusing as well as attractive and safe?

They do not pause, taking a circular route around the market. His customer—Galahad, he supposes. Galahad looks around as if searching for something, but apparently he doesn’t find it, because soon enough they leave Garden and head down a street Eggsy has never ventured down. He remembers why as soon as four men in long black coats step out in front of him and Galahad.

“You smell somethin’?” the shortest man drawls loudly. The man with the biggest nose sniffs the air theatrically. “Smells like puppy piddle to me.”

Eggsy steps back very slow and careful, eyes flicking between the four enemies.

“Puppy piss,” the tallest man agrees. “Maybe a little pussy.”

“Definitely,” said Big Nose, still sniffing.

The fourth man crosses his arms over his chest and looks Eggsy over. He is the one who has molested Eggsy more than the others. From the gloating look in his eyes, he is more than willing to do it again. “What’s a pussy puppy like you doing in Anvil territory?” he demands.

“Passin’ through,” Eggsy replies shortly. “That’s all.”

Galahad, wisely, keeps his mouth shut.

“No whore passes through here without payin’ up,” Molester intones, a rule Eggsy has heard many times before. His stomach twists. Oh god—oh god, not here, not now—

“I don’t have money on me,” he says. His mouth is very dry. He knows Molester didn’t mean money; but he’s trying desperately to hope tonight will be different.

“You know what I meant,” Molester prods, taking a step forward, a nasty grin spreading across his scarred face.

Galahad clears his throat. Everyone looks at him. He smiles, coldly. “While I agree that his services are admirable, I feel I must warn you…” The smile vanishes. There is nothing but aggression now, an animalistic, territorial violence held in check—and maybe that’s why Eggsy slides away from him as well. He holds it so easily. “Touch him, and none of you will walk or speak again,” Galahad growls, stepping in front of Eggsy, facing the four Anvils.

He means it. Eggsy feels that in his bones. If any of these bastards so much as breathe on him… His stomach untwists and fills with fire. If Galahad asked, Eggsy would gladly let him bugger him in the middle of the street at that moment. The feeling of being protected is unexpected and… nice.

Molester laughs uncertainly. “You sure about that, granddad?” he taunts, voice trembling.

“Oh, yes,” Galahad answers quietly. “I am very sure.”

There is a space of silence, as they all simply stand there. Then Galahad takes another, very sudden step forward, and the Anvils bolt.

Eggsy actually laughs, and Galahad turns to smile at him. There is no sign of hostility now. Perhaps that should scare him. It doesn’t. Instead, he puts his arm through Galahad’s and announces cheerfully, “I know where I wanna go now. Hope you got the clink for a private booth.”

Galahad’s eyes spark with something much more akin to Eggsy’s own emotions. “I’ll see what I can do,” he ceded.

~~~\0/~~~

Harry has trouble remembering his mission, because he can tell already that he’s halfway to getting his favorite to agree to his offer. He’d been a little afraid that his jumping to the other’s defense would put him off, but no, it seems to have improved his standing. That is good.

They go to a pub Harry has seen but never entered, called The Black Prince. There are “private” booths, tiny closets with just enough room for a table and two benches, with curtains instead of doors; Harry can easily afford one, and when they are seated, he has to remind himself forcefully that he isn’t supposed to have deep pockets. He cannot afford the most expensive meal available. He knows his favorite already knows he can, but he can’t let anyone else guess.

“Owner’s already thinkin’ of taking these out,” his favorite, Eggsy, comments idly.

“Why?” Harry asks, faking surprise and curiosity. All he wants is for Eggsy to come sit on his side of the booth. Is that too much to ask?

“Because—“ Eggsy stops, looks at him for a moment, grins, and suddenly slides under the table. Harry’s heart jumps and his legs twitch; is he going to—no, Eggsy just slithers up again beside Harry, and leans on him like an affectionate cat. That’s good too. Harry slips his arm around Eggsy’s waist, and the younger man nestles right against him.

“He doesn’t like it when whores bring customers here,” Eggsy continues, grinning mischievously. Harry can’t, and doesn’t want to, stop a smile. “So, can we get lots of food or are you gonna keep play-actin’? ‘Cause you ain’t very good at it.”

“Damn,” Harry mutters, and smiles again as Eggsy chuckles.

They do order quite a lot of food, and Harry delights in the fact that, here, closed off from the world, Eggsy is perfectly alright with Harry feeding him off his own plate, and vice versa. At some point, Eggsy manages to ascend to Harry’s lap, and Harry has trouble not feeling him up. But he restrains himself, and just cuts up another potato to share.

When the meal is finished, Eggsy says abruptly, “I want you to meet some friends of mine.”

“If you want money, my notecase is in my pocket,” Harry jests, smiling as Eggsy glares.

“No, not those kinds of friends. They… well… just come with me.”

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy tries not to think about how the others are going to be very angry with him. Toffs aren’t allowed at the meetings. Toffs don’t understand, don’t care—

But this toff cares about _him_ , about Eggsy. Why else would he look at Eggsy like that? Why would he talk so sweet? Why would he listen soberly and answer like he knows what’s happening to the commonfolk?

He could be lying, whispers the wariest part of him, as he leads Galahad up the stairs. Like he lied about being a tailor. Or—or maybe he wasn’t lying about that. Maybe he’s just a tailor somewhere posh, like—like somewhere on Savile Row, or one of those other fancy places. Eggsy knows people who work in places like that have to pretend they’re upper-crust too. Yes. For now, he’ll salve his conscience with the idea that Galahad is just play-acting constantly.

That must be exhausting. At least Eggsy can… can… no, he can’t stop acting either.

Damn it, focus, Eggsy! He scowls fiercely to himself, and lifts his head when they reach the attic door. He doesn’t bother knocking, just shoves it open and strides right in.

John is already there, setting out food and drink. He smiles at Eggsy, and frowns at Galahad.

“He’s safe,” Eggsy assures John quickly. Then he takes his seat along the wall. Galahad sits beside him, eyes flicking over the entire room, interest hooded. John’s frown eases, though he still looks grumpy, and continues his chore. When that is done, he sits down across from Eggsy.

“Heard you ran into some Anvils,” John prompts.

Eggsy grunts.

John turns to Galahad. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Galahad,” Galahad replies quietly.

John frowns again, but Eggsy glares, and he doesn’t argue. Eggsy will have to think up an excuse for the codename… but not yet. For now, they will drink and wait.

Fellow conspirators trickle in; all give Galahad sharp looks, but he’s with Eggsy. They trust Eggsy. Even their two leaders, who never want Eggsy there anyway because of his connection to Dean, trust his judgement when it comes to new recruits. He’s brought in more than his fair share of useful people.

Galahad will be useful. He understands. He has money. He can help them.

“Let’s start with an introduction,” Flory announces once everyone has gathered, and everyone’s eyes turn to Galahad. He takes a breath and opens his mouth, but Eggsy cuts across him sharply.

“He’s with me,” he says shortly, loud enough for everyone to hear, but only just. And he leaves it at that.

Flory sighs. “What’s yer name?” she demands of Galahad.

“He calls himself Galahad,” John answers her with a sharp glance at the man himself. A tiny crease has appeared between Galahad’s eyebrows, but otherwise he is calm.

“I c’n speak f’r myself, thanks,” Galahad announces, his voice low and faintly growling as his accent changes. Eggsy doesn’t even blink.

“You know what we do here?” Isiah inquires, clasping his hands and leaning his elbows on the table.

Galahad glances to Eggsy. Eggsy raises an eyebrow. Galahad’s brow clears, and he answers, “Yes. An’ I wanna help any way I c’n.”

Isiah and Flory look at Eggsy as well. He stares back, as emotionless as possible. Take him. Bring him in. Be sensible about this. He can be useful.

Isiah nods slightly. Flory purses her lips, then also dips her head in agreement. “Welcome, Galahad,” she says, and with that, Eggsy’s customer is now his coconspirator.

~~~\0/~~~

Harry is amazed at how easy that was. He hadn’t even had to drop any hints—and now he is actually _in_ the rebellion. Which isn’t actually a rebellion, after all. Just a group of people complaining and dreaming. He’s actually a little disappointed.

But—he can bring that news to Arthur, and Arthur will stop pestering him about it. And anyway, these dreams and complaints are surprisingly knowledgeable and realistic. With the right push… this little society could become a true rebellion. But the right push will never come. Harry will make sure of that.

For now, he walks Eggsy to the corner where the younger usually stands and waits for customers.

“That was our night-meeting,” Eggsy murmurs suddenly. “We already had a day-meeting. There’s a lot of us. We need two shifts. Flory and Isiah work at the pub, so they’re on hand all the time.”

“Are you at every meeting?” Harry asks quietly. There are eyes watching them. He takes Eggsy’s hand and weaves his fingers with Eggsy’s. It’s hard to see, but Harry thinks Eggsy is smiling.

“As many as I can get to.”

“Ah… I do apologise for the change of subject, but…”

“No.” Eggsy yanks his hand out of Harry’s; he is not smiling anymore.

Harry’s throat tightens. “Alright,” he says softly.

Now they are at the corner. Eggsy leans on the lamppost. Harry stands there, wanting to kiss him, knowing it would be a bad idea. Then he blurts, “The offer still stands,” turns, and walks away quickly, mentally cursing at himself.

But it does. If Eggsy ever decides to be his lover, he is welcome.

Harry doesn’t go home just yet. He heads for Savile Row, carefully adjusting himself as he passes through neighborhoods. He takes off his coat and turns it inside out, so the pure, clean black wool of the inside faces outwards (the Kingsman tailors have mastered the art of the reversible coat); a cravat appears, knotted ever so carefully, around his neck; a handkerchief dusts off his boots in an alley where no one can see him; he raises his chin and walks with the cool, lofty disregard befitting his station.

Kingsman is closed, but he has his keys. Making sure no one is there to see, he enters, and strides towards and up the stairs, brushing his fingertips against tables and shelves and walls. He drank a little too much ale tonight.

Arthur is in the dining room as usual, a glass of whiskey at his elbow. He looks up from a sheaf of reports as Harry steps into the room.

“You’re late,” Arthur states wearily.

“I know,” Harry replies, and gets straight to business. “I’ve been accepted into that rebellion Lord Jersey is so concerned about. They’re not much; they’re more of a complaint society. They have nothing but plans and dreams.”

Arthur sets down the papers carefully, looking very thoughtful. “Go on,” he urges.

Harry tells him almost everything, in precise detail. He does not tell him about Eggsy. He mentions him only once, calls him an informant, and leaves it at that. It’s none of Arthur’s business; and if all goes well, it never will be.

When Harry finishes, Arthur dismisses him. He’s obviously distracted, probably trying to concoct a way to get at the key members of this infant rebellion and kill them. That’s Chester, though; if you can’t control it, kill it. Even all these years of being Arthur haven’t tempered that part of him.

Then again, Harry’s impulsiveness makes him nearly as bad. So perhaps he shouldn’t judge.

He doesn’t walk home; he hails a cab, and pays well, and trudges into a dark, cold townhouse. Harry looks around, and feels an obscure ache in the spot below his ribs. What would it be like? What would it be like to be met with a cheerful hello when he feels sour? How would it feel to see smudges on furniture, crumbs in the kitchen, lights left on, a rumpled, unmade bed? It must be wonderful.

The ache spreads to his chest and throat. He wants Eggsy.

But he can’t have him. He won’t agree. He doesn’t see—not that Harry ever showed him. And he would never force him. So the house will remain dark and cold and cheerless, until such time as some other, more willing light enters Harry’s life.

He goes slowly up to bed, and somehow manages to sleep.

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy sleeps well, with a full stomach and the memory of kindness. He even manages not to be soured by Galahad’s insistence on his moving in with him. Eggsy is vaguely content, and that’s all that matters.

He wakes the moment mum touches his shoulder, and eats whatever is in the bowl she gives him. He’s thinking of his dreams. He doesn’t usually remember his dreams, but it’s hard to forget a dream so sweet and exciting. He won’t tell mum. He doesn’t want to distress her.

Although she already seems fairly distressed… she’s pulled up their single chair next to Eggsy’s pallet and is cradling Daisy on her lap, looking worried—no, not worried. Upset. Anxious. Pained.

“What’s wrong?” Eggsy asks, tugging mum’s sleeve gently.

She smiles, but it’s small and brittle and not at all reassuring. “Nothing,” she answers softly. “Dean—said something last night. About—about that gang, the, the Anvils.” Her mouth twists like she’s bitten a lemon. “But he didn’t mean it.”

“Yes I did.” Dean climbs laboriously down from the loft and stands, clutching the ladder, scowling. Definitely hung over. “I meant what I said,” he repeated in a croaking growl. “You ain’t nearly as useful as you were. Yer a burden on this household. Hammer from the Anvils spoke to me last night; I’m selling ya off to them. I get a percentage of what ya earn—“

“No!” Eggsy scrambles to his feet, bowl and spoon dropping from his nerveless fingers as he stares, horrified, at his stepfather. “No, I ain’t goin’, I ain’t goin’ with them, I—“

“You’ll go where I send you and that’s FINAL!” Dean roars, swaying where he stands. Daisy begins to cry. Mum stands, begins to say something soothing, backs down when Dean snarls at her. Eggsy would have flown at him, would have hit him for making her afraid, but he’s frozen with his own selfish fear. No—no—no, he’s seen the whores “owned” by the Anvil gang. They’re barely people anymore. They’re all hollow and broken—they don’t feel anymore—half of them are dying of the clap. Eggsy doesn’t want to be one of them, he doesn’t want to be killed so slowly—

And Hammer, Hammer is the one who—

And then a solution appears to him.

Dean and mum both see him go very still. Mum is terrified now, and Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously. Eggsy doesn’t care. He’s desperately trying to remember when Galahad is next expected. Tonight—tonight, at eight. Surely he can avoid everyone and everything until then. Yes, he can. At eight, he’ll go home with Galahad, and he’ll stay there, and be his—mistress or whatever. He’ll be safe there.

“When?” Eggsy whispers, not looking at either of the two standing before him.

“Tonight,” Dean grunts. “And don’t think you can just run off and disappear. I’ll be sendin’ my boys to collect.”

Eggsy nods slowly and carefully, eyes still fixed on the ground. How will he dodge them? He’s quick enough, but he never learned to fight. He knows Galahad is strong, but how many younger, stronger men can he hold off? Eggsy doesn’t really want to know. Oh god this is getting far too complicated.

Dean grunts in satisfaction and stumps out of the house. Mum waits a few moments, then rushes over to Eggsy and pats his face, puts her arm around his shoulder, whispers reassurances and panicky promises. Eggsy can’t look her in the eye, but he murmurs, “It’s okay. I won’t be going to the Anvils. Mum—don’t tell. But one of the toffs asked me to—to be his—to go with him. I’m gonna do it.”

“When did this happen?”

“Months ago. He’s got protection, though. You can come too, you and Dais—“

But mum is shaking her head, and she kisses his cheek before explaining, “No, then Dean will definitely find us and hurt you. And this—this person, we don’t know he’ll—no, if you’ll be safe there, you go.”

“But—“

“I can’t.”

Eggsy hesitates, wanting to demand an explanation, wanting to protest, to argue, to beg; instead, he nods, and hugs her, and kisses Daisy’s forehead as his baby sister whimpers a little. “Fine,” he says. It’s not. But he has to hope it will be.


	2. Chapter 2

Eggsy leans against the lamppost, thrusts his hands in his pockets, crosses his feet, and waits.

Some of the Dogs are hanging around in discreet hiding places. Eggsy thinks he can evade them when the time comes, but he’s not quite sure. He’s tense and nervy, and shakes his head every time someone comes to proposition him. Sometimes they get aggressive, but Bulldog, who is leaning on the nearest doorway, growls threateningly and they back away.

Eight o’clock is slow, but it comes. And here comes Galahad, sauntering down the street, dark eyes flicking to spot each Dog in his hole, before he nods a cordial greeting to Bull and says gravely to Eggsy, “Are you available?”

Eggsy has already pushed off from the lamppost gratefully, and crosses his arms over his chest, play-scowling at Galahad. “Depends,” he replies. “How much you got?”

“Enough, I should think,” Galahad answers.

“He ain’t available,” Bulldog cuts in with a sneer. “Get on your way, grandad.”

Galahad just looks at Bulldog thoughtfully for a moment. Then he turns back to Eggsy and asks, “When _are_ you available?”

Eggsy takes a breath. Here goes nothing. “Anytime.”

Galahad begins to frown—and then his face clears and lights up, and though he doesn’t actually smile, Eggsy can tell that he wants to. “So you accept,” he clarifies, his voice calm and clear.

“Yes.”

The corners of Galahad’s mouth begin to curve upwards. “Wonderful. Shall we?”

“Yes.”

“Hey! You ain’t goin’ nowhere!” Bulldog protests just as Galahad reaches out to take Eggsy’s hand; the Dog pushes off the wall hard and lunges with a knife—

Galahad is faster. In moments he has dodged, plucked the knife from Bulldog’s hands, kicked him in the stomach, and tapped him smartly on the back of his head with the knife’s handle when he folds over. Bulldog hits the pavement and does not move.

“HEY! He done Bulldog! He done Bulldog!”

Now the other Dogs pour from their places, and to Eggsy’s frightened eye, instead of six there are sixteen, and how can they possibly hope to outrun—

Galahad grabs Eggsy’s arm and shoves him into the doorway where Bulldog had been leaning, backing up to be a barrier between Eggsy and the Dogs. “Stay put, please, my dear,” Galahad says, absolutely calm, as he braces his feet and raises his fists. “This will only take a few moments.”

Eggsy stays pressed against the door, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as Galahad methodically takes out all six assailants. A judicious kick, a quick succession of punches, a slam of skull against ground or wall; it doesn’t matter how, the result is the same. All of them end up piled at Galahad’s feet, one already trying to drag himself and his broken leg away from more possible damage. Galahad sighs and turns to Eggsy. The fierce, territorial look is back in his eyes and face, and Eggsy can’t help but feel… no, now it’s gone. All he’s left with is the empty numbness that always comes after a rush of fear and/or exhilaration.

But he likes that protective tone when Galahad asks, “Are there more? Or may I take you home now?”

“Take me home,” Eggsy replies simply.

“My pleasure, dearest.”

There had been people on the street, but they’d vanished when the fighting began. Now faces begin to peek out, and some gape to see the old man and the rentboy walking arm-in-arm away from a pile of injured brawlers. Eggsy actually feels quite proud to be seen with Galahad.

At least he knows now that no one will try to sell him again with Galahad.

~~~\0/~~~

Harry is too full of delight and exhilaration to care about the mess he made. He has Eggsy on his arm, he’s beaten a few thugs who probably deserved worse, and now they are going to celebrate. He has a bottle of champagne somewhere; they can drink the whole thing, and tomorrow he’ll begin the pampering.

He already has it all planned. It’s a long, convoluted plan, and he is sure Eggsy will try to fight the plan; but having it makes Harry feel like he has some control, and he already knew Eggsy would not grant him any. There will be arguments, fights, confrontations. There will also be truces, compromises, and compliance from both sides. Harry feels more on his mettle than he has in a long time.

“So how far is it?” Eggsy asks abruptly, shaking Harry from his reverie.

“Ah—oh, yes. A moment.” Harry steps to the edge of the pavement and gives a sharp, piercing whistle. He’s answered by a more decorous run of notes like birdsong, and a glossy black hansom pulled by a glossy black horse turns the corner to trot towards the pair of walkers. Harry recognizes the whistle before the horse, and the horse before the driver, but he nods a greeting to the driver as he hustles Eggsy gently to the hansom and says, “Good evening, Michael. How’s business?”

“Pret’y brisk,” Michael answers cheerfully, giving a proper military salute. Harry hasn’t been a commanding officer for five years, but Michael, and some of the other Kingsman drivers, tell him it’s habit now. “Home for you, sir?”

“Yes, please.”

“Gotcha.” Michael chirrups to his horse, an outstanding beast indeed, and they are off. Eggsy has smushed himself into a corner of the seat and is looking around with eyes both wide and wary.

“Have you ever ridden in a carriage before?” Harry asks, amused.

“Rode with a wagon few times,” Eggsy mutters. “Much bumpier.”

“Wagons are for burdens, not people.” Harry says it softly so Michael won’t hear, and reaches over to touch the back of Eggsy’s hand, clenched on the edge of the seat. Eggsy shoots him a glare, and then his expression turns troubled, and perhaps a little afraid, and Harry desperately wants to hold him—but no. No, this is not the time or place. Wait.

They make it home without incident. Harry leads the way inside, smiling slightly at the way Eggsy turns to inspect the street and the houses and the people—there must be a party or two going on nearby—but he loses the smile when he has to light a candle because the gas lamp has gone out. He should’ve topped it up before he left. Oh well. At least it’s not cold.

Just as Harry lights the hall lamp, Eggsy says, a little shyly, a little falsely haughty, “Got any grub?”

“Plenty,” Harry answers, and leads the way to the kitchen.

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy sinks down in the bathtub to his nose and stares at his knees, just poking above the water.

The ride in the carriage had been interesting, and a little relieving; no one would look for him in a toff’s carriage. But it had also been frightening. He’d been interested and excited by the wealth, the cleanliness, the stench of respectability, radiating off the buildings, rising from the street (which was absolutely clear of dung and refuse), and pouring from the door to Galahad’s home. It had been dark, and smelled thickly of cleaning and Galahad’s personal smell; until they entered the kitchen. Then Eggsy had been assaulted with food-smells, and he forgot the darkness and silence and cold.

Galahad had absolutely stuffed ‘im. He’d cooked almost every kind of food that could be cooked quickly, and several things Eggsy had never heard or thought of before, and all of it had been delicious. With gas lamps and candles and hot food and a feeling of—of—one minute Eggsy had been laughing at Galahad’s gentle warning about eating too fast, the next he’d been crying.

He thinks he remembers Galahad hugging him, murmuring nice things in a soothing tone.

And now he’s so full that his stomach has a bulge, and Galahad has left him in peace in a bath that smells like lavender and feels like an all-over hug. He’s tired, though, and stubborn; so he does not cry more. When the water starts to feel cold, he opens the little drain and lets the water out (grey already just from his soaking) and then refills the bath—thank god for indoor plumbing. Then, stiffly, he begins to actually clean himself, with soap so soft and sweet he doubts it’s really working, scrubbing every inch that he can reach. When he’s done, the water is grey again; but it’s lighter, and a third water-hug to rinse carries nothing but the white dregs of suds.

The towels are soft, so soft, and Eggsy catches another sob before it can escape his throat, because it reminds him of the rough flannel at home, the flannel that is all they have, all they have because mum couldn’t find better, mum couldn’t—

He’ll go back for her. In a few days, he’ll go back and rescue her and Daisy. This house is big enough, surely Galahad won’t mind. Eggsy comforts himself with these hopeful thoughts that know they are doomed, and dries himself thoroughly with the fluffy towels, and when he opens the bathroom door there is a neat stack of folded clothing on the floor.

All of it is too big. Eggsy doesn’t mind. When he’s done dressing he steps out again, having left the towels hanging on a rack that he _thinks_ is for that use, and… stands there, in the shiny fancy hallway, at a complete loss. Well… surely it’d be alright if he took a little tour, wouldn’t it? If he’s to stay here, he should know his surroundings.

And he doesn’t believe Harry. He doesn’t believe that he has no servants, no family, no housemates. Who could possibly live without other people getting in the way and being underfoot? It isn’t natural. And what single person could keep any place so clean and fresh? Even with both Eggsy and mum—no, he won’t think about that right now. He pads softly down the hall, away from the stairs, and begins his silent search.

He uncovers three rooms with beds. Two are small, one substantially so; the big room is obviously the one where Harry sleeps, and Eggsy has an urge to run and throw himself on that neatly-made bed and sleep for days. Sleep uninterrupted, sleep full and deep, sleep like he’s never had—but that will be later. He prowls all three bedrooms, and decides he likes the smallest one best. It feels safer. And the door is more easily blocked, and the window is too small for any but the skinniest of thieves; too small for Dean or any of his Dogs. Or any Anvils.

Besides the bedrooms are the bathroom, a flushing lavatory, and a room that is locked. Eggsy hesitates, biting his lip, then decides against trying to find something to pick the lock with. Let there be at least one secret.

He descends the stairs and wrinkles his nose. There is the smell of food and safety and solitude, and also something acrid, something bitter and irritating, something that makes him… it’s gone. Damn. But he continues his exploration. The kitchen and dining room are not new, but he tells himself he’s thirsty so he has an excuse to pour a glass of something the color of translucent brass from a glass decanter. It’s very good, whatever it is. He carries his glass with him when he ambles over to the door directly across the hall, and winces when he looks inside. Another bog; full of dead bugs in cases hung on the wall, and a stuffed dog. Eggsy can’t read the plaque underneath, and he’s not sure he wants to.

He closes the door and moves on.

Galahad is in the library, writing something briskly. Eggsy halts in the doorway, cradling his glass in both hands and staring at the walls between the bookcases. They’re papered in newspaper. Every inch not full of books is covered in paper.

“So how are you enjoying your snooping?” Galahad asks without pausing in his writing. Eggsy refuses to be ashamed.

“What’s in the locked room upstairs?” he inquires instead.

“A closet.”

Eggsy blinks, then continues curiously, “Why would you lock the closet?”

“Why would I not?” Galahad counters, finally looking up. He looks… amused, wry. The corner of his mouth is hooked ever so slightly. “Wealth does not equal security from thieves, not even here.”

Eggsy finds himself smiling too. That actually makes him feel a little better. “What’re the papers for?”

Galahad turns his attention to the pages on the walls. His amusement is gone. Now he looks unhappy, almost angry but not quite. “They… are reminders,” he answers slowly. Then he turns deliberately back to Eggsy and says, “I have to finish this letter, so go ahead and snoop to your heart’s content. Just don’t drink all of my liquor.”

Eggsy smiles wider, lingers in the doorway just long enough to prove it’s his own idea to leave, and moves on.

There’s a room full of chairs and a couch and small tables. Almost every small (and large) knickknack is expensive, and almost all of them seem… out of place. They’re not what Galahad chose, so he doesn’t care how they’re presented, except that they are. Eggsy sets his glass down and automatically begins to rearrange.

The collection of porcelain cats with raised paws leave the back of the display cupboard and join the collection of small sculptures of a fat man in baggy robes on a more prominent shelf. The two hideous vases on the mantelpiece switch places with the two not-so-hideous vases on tables on the walls. Pillows exchange chairs. Tables turn. A clock with an inadequately clad shepherdess on its casing goes in the cupboard, where it’s less visible.

Finally, Eggsy decides he’s fiddled enough. He picks up his glass and goes to look elsewhere.

The next room is indecipherable. There’s a huge table covered in green fabric with a raised lip all the way around and little pockets, and a neat triangle of heavy balls in the center. A rack of long sticks is nearby. There is a game set up—chess, Eggsy thinks—and another, similar game, with pieces on points instead of in the squares. It stinks of Rich Man. He leaves that room alone.

Another room seemingly designed for nothing but sitting. Eggsy rearranges the flowers.

The last room is small, smaller than the loo upstairs; and when Eggsy steps inside he has an immediate sense of panic and rage, so strong he can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel—he stumbles out again, slams the door shut, slumps against the wall opposite, panting and sweating like he’s been running from An—no! No, the thought of them just makes it worse.

“Eggsy—I should’ve warned you, I’m sorry—come here.” A hand closes ever so gently on his elbow, and pulls him carefully away. He is glad to jerk around, to stumble down the hall back to that haven known as Kitchen. Where is his glass? On the floor, probably broken. It doesn’t matter. Galahad thrusts a new glass full of strong alcohol into his hands, and when Eggsy knocks that back, refills the cup, before filling the kettle and putting it over the fire for tea.

“What…?” Eggsy gasps.

“Something… worse than what’s upstairs,” Galahad hedges. He refills Eggsy’s glass again. “I’m keeping it safe until my employer can send someone ‘round to pick it up. To be honest, I didn’t think to warn you because I didn’t think it would… affect you so greatly.” Galahad pauses, and looks deep into Eggsy’s eyes, frowning slightly. Eggsy just stares back, still quite shaken. Finally Galahad sighs and sits in the chair beside Eggsy’s. “Listen. That room is as off-limits as the one upstairs. Usually the kind of visitors I receive here—not that there are many—are too polite to go opening doors they haven’t been offered.”

“I ain’t a visitor.”

The faintest happy gleam comes into Galahad’s eyes. “I know.” Then the gleam fades, and he continues soberly, “Which is why I must ask you not to go in either room again. And I can’t tell you their contents, so don’t ask.”

“You ain’t a tailor,” Eggsy comments, with a glassy sort of calm. “You’re a smuggler.”

Galahad smiles ever so faintly. “When I need to be,” he confirms quietly. Then he stands up—like a wolf who’s reasserted authority over a cub and is now more concerned with wolf-things than cub-things—and goes to check the kettle.

Eggsy remains slumped in his chair, bewildered, bemused, and confused, and many other things besides. He decides to be angry, that Galahad had not warned him—but that feels too much like what he’d felt when he’d opened that door, so his emotions revert back to confusion.

What the bloody hell _was_ that?

Never mind. Galahad is bringing over a tray with a fancy china tea set, and there are biscuits, and little round things with jam in them. Eggsy loves jam. Loves it so much he will gladly push away uneasy thoughts of the past for present pleasure.

Despite such a full supper, Eggsy eats most of the biscuits and drinks a lot of tea. The tea is calming. There is less bitterness than what mum—he likes it better this way. And Galahad lets him load it with as much sugar and cream as he wants. Tea is the universal cure for every illness, and it’s comforting that even toffs know how to make it properly. Well, some of them, at least.

Eggsy startles himself with a yawn. Usually he’s working until the wee hours of the morn; it’s barely ten o’clock. Then again, he’s eaten more than usual, and he’s worn out emotionally, to accompany the physical weariness.

“Where would you like to sleep?” Galahad asks.

Eggsy almost answers, “With you, of course.” But that wouldn’t be right. So he replies with, “As far from the closet as possible.”

“Ah… that would be my room, I believe.”

“Then I’ll sleep in your room.”

“Alright.”

Eggsy almost laughs at how easy that was, but he yawns instead. He’ll have to share the bed with Galahad… but considering what he has planned as a thank-you, that’s necessary anyway.

Or maybe that thank-you won’t be tonight. His eyes keep closing, and somewhere between blink and blink he’s in a bed that seems impossibly comfortable, with Galahad tucking him in. Eggsy finds the strength to growl and push the other’s hands away, but that’s all he has. He drifts off before he can finish saying, “I can take care of…”

~~~\0/~~~

The sleeping powder acts more quickly than Harry expects it to. Perhaps it’s a good thing Eggsy diluted his tea so much. He obviously didn’t taste the powder, although why would he? It’s one of Merlin’s finest compounds, and he’s extremely proud of it.

Harry looks down at Eggsy, sprawled inelegantly under neatly-tucked blankets, one arm free and twisted at an odd angle. The vaguest of horrible thoughts crosses his mind, but he shakes his head and it leaves. He’d never take advantage of Eggsy when he’s unconscious. But he can look, and long for, and sigh because he really, really wanted to reassure Eggsy that he would never hurt him as long as he was under this roof.

Or… maybe that would have been the wrong way to go about it.

Wait… isn’t there a meeting at the pub tonight?

Harry leans down, kisses Eggsy’s forehead gently, then hurries to dress in his tailor-clothes. He’d promised to bring some silk handkerchiefs as a good-faith token, and to that end he had borrowed kerchiefs from nine of his fellow agents, and one from Merlin. Arthur would not part with any scrap if he knew it was to be given to one of the lower classes, so Harry had added one of his own to the stack.

One last look at Eggsy’s sleeping face (so sad, so peaceful), and Harry is out the door.

~~~\0/~~~

When Eggsy wakes up, it’s with a strange sense of combined peace and anxiety. Peace, because he is safe; anxiety, because… because… he can’t remember.

Wait. Where is he?

He sits bolt upright, head whipping side to side so fast his neck cracks, heart pounding. Where—where—Galahad. He’s in Galahad’s house. Galahad’s bed. But where is Galahad, then?

“Awake?” asks a quiet voice. Eggsy twists, and feels one of the many knots in his chest unravel. There’s Galahad; sitting up on a pallet near the wardrobe, legs crossed, a portable writing desk on his lap. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink, and is somehow more alert for it. “How was your sleep?” Galahad asks calmly.

“Fine,” Eggsy answers cautiously. Then, because he can—he _can_ , what a lovely feeling—he lays down again, turning over on his side so he can still see Galahad. “Did you sleep at all?”

“No,” Galahad answered, writing a few more words before laying down his… not a quill. Something almost as long as one, though, and made of dark metal. “I went to the meeting. Here are my notes. I hope you don’t mind my taking the liberty.”

“Uh…”

Galahad looks up and raises an eyebrow. “Can you read?” he asks, not at all patronizing or condescending.

“No,” Eggsy admits, feeling a surge of shame, no matter that Galahad looks more sympathetic than annoyed. He’s always wanted to read; it seems a kind of magic, that little shapes in different arrangements mean the same thing as the sounds that come out of his mouth and roll around in his head.

“Would you like to learn?”

Eggsy slides out of the safe, warm bed to walk straight over and plop down next to Galahad, leaning against him. Eggsy can’t see his face, but he’s sure Galahad is smiling.

They begin with letters. Eggsy can memorize their names and recognizes the sounds, but when Galahad tries to teach him to pronounce some of them differently, he can’t help getting angry.

“What’s wrong with the way I say H?” he demands crossly.

“You don’t sometimes,” Galahad replies. “That’s not your fault, but if you’re going to learn to read, you should learn how to talk as well. Now, give me all the pronunciations of O.”

It’s only a few hours, but it feels like days, when Galahad finally caps the ink bottle, sets the lap desk aside, and says, “I believe a bit of breakfast is in order.”

Eggsy clambers to his feet just as his stomach lets out a hopeful growl, and Galahad smiles again. Once more, Eggsy thinks dimly that he is beginning to read those expressions; that smile is barely more than a quirk at one end of his mouth, and yet it’s almost like a full grin.

Galahad is a good cook. Eggsy eats three times as much as his—his—host does. Then, of course, he feels sick and stiff, but that’s alright, because Galahad herds him upstairs again and orders firmly, “You need another bath. Take one.”

“I’m fine, though,” Eggsy protests, but with a little concentration he can smell his own sweat—funny, it seems different than usual—and it is not a nice smell. Not next to the light, warm scent coming off Galahad. So Eggsy scowls and stomps into the bathroom.

This time, he truly _scrubs_. Every nook and cranny receives a full rinse, wash, and rinse again. He wonders vaguely what it’d be like to share the bath… then he dismisses the notion. Galahad will want to have sex, and Eggsy doesn’t want to. Not right now, at least.

Oh—that’s right. He can _refuse_. He can _refuse_ to have sex! He can refuse to sell himself—but before he can get too excited, he reminds himself that he owes Galahad _some_ repayment for taking him in, and it might as well be the same thing he’s used to getting. What else does Eggsy have, after all? Nothing. He can’t even read, for god’s sake.

A heavy mantle of misery closes around his heart and the hand clutching the soapy cloth falls away. Eggsy stares at his knees, poking just above the water. Nothing—he has nothing—he doesn’t even have mum or Daisy anymore. They’re still back—they’re still—

He doesn’t remember starting to cry, but he catches himself quickly and finishes washing. Can’t let Galahad know. He’ll just rescue mum and Daisy after the meeting today.

The meeting!

He fairly flies out of the bath and rubs himself down with a towel too quickly to be absolutely thorough, and drags on the clothes Galahad had provided before flinging open the door. Then he halts, and looks down at his new duds.

They are much too fine. He can’t wear these. He needs his old clothes back. He turns to go back to his—Galahad’s—their room, but before he takes more than a step Galahad calls from the bottom of the stairs, “Is everything alright?”

“Ah—yeah—nah—where’re my things?” Eggsy yells back, torn between which direction to run.

“Why?” Galahad’s voice is sharp, and now footsteps are coming up the stairs.

“Never you mind, just tell me where they are!”

“If you’re thinking of going to the meeting,” Galahad comments, stepping up on to the landing, “I suggest not. I ran into some thugs on my way last night; they claimed to be looking for you. And I assume they have at least one lookout at the Black Prince.”

Eggsy stares at him. Oh… he hadn’t thought of that. Of course they’ll have a trap laid. Dean’s Dogs—and probably the Anvils as well. No, he can’t go today, or tonight—or even tomorrow. Even if the Anvils decide he’s too much trouble, Dean won’t. Dean will be furious, and he’ll… “They’ll try to find me,” Eggsy says. He feels numb and cold. “I know they will.”

“They already did.” Galahad walks over, but does not touch Eggsy. “I… dissuaded them.”

“What did you do?”

Galahad smiles—a real smile, a cold, cruel smile. “If you truly wish to know, I can read you the morning paper,” he offers, oh so sweetly.

Eggsy suppresses a shiver, and tells himself it’s only because he didn’t dry off properly. “No,” he says, dropping his gaze to the carpet. “I’d rather not.”

Galahad grips his chin and pulls it very gently up, just enough to kiss Eggsy’s forehead. “I did nothing that was not justified,” he promises quietly. He does not force Eggsy to meet his eyes, simply sliding his hand up to lay against Eggsy’s cheek. It is a very different feeling than being slapped so hard he was dizzy. “And I left no clues to lead anyone here. You are safe.”

“Mum,” he mumbles without meaning to. “And Daisy.”

“I can bring them here.”

Eggsy looks up finally to gape at Galahad. “You’d do that?” he demands, stunned.

Galahad’s mouth twitches. “If it will make you feel better, yes. Absolutely.”

“Why are you being so nice?”

Galahad takes a breath to answer, stops, frowns very slightly—not angry, just confused—and steps away, taking his hand back and curling it into a fist. Then his face clears again, and his smile is warm and kind. “Because I want you to be happy,” he answers.

~~~\0/~~~

Harry does not show his fear. He does not dare. This is as close as he can come to honesty, the weak, bland “want you to be happy”. He can’t bring himself to speak the truth.

He has never used the word “love” once in his fifty-plus years of life, and he refuses to do so now.

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy doesn’t mind Galahad reading to him. Galahad has a nice voice. And he was so thorough; most of what he’s written is verbatim, and when it isn’t, it’s as detailed as possible. Eggsy is sure he didn’t write all this during the meeting itself, which means it was all from memory. How frightening.

There’s quite a difference between the fear evoked by Galahad and that created by literally everything else. Danger triggers panic, which always either freezes him or makes him run; Galahad triggers… fear, yes, definitely. Wariness. Tension. Excitement. Clean, honest, happy excitement.

Galahad stops reading. Eggsy, leaning against his shoulder, mutters, “Why’d you stop?”

“You seem to be falling asleep,” Galahad explains.

Eggsy scowls up at him. “I’m thinking,” he replies tartly. “Keep reading.”

“That was everything. I… was reciting. And since you didn’t notice, that must mean you are thinking too hard to listen.”

He doesn’t mean to, but he says aloud, “Keep talking, then.”

Galahad does not seem surprised. “First I would like a drink,” he declares, “So if you would please stand up so you are not sitting on my foot, I will make us some tea.”

“When are you gonna bring mum and Daisy here?” Eggsy asks as he scrambles to his feet, and Galahad rises more dignifiedly.

Galahad uses the act of setting the papers aside as a hesitator, then turns to look Eggsy right in the eye and says, “After tea, please.”

Eggsy has never been overly-patient, and no matter how calming Galahad’s voice, he has waited far longer than he should’ve needed to. “You bamming me?! They could be _hurt_ , he could’ve tried to sell one or both of them, they could’ve—“

“Hush.”

Eggsy hushes, though he’s trembling like a high-strung terrier with a rat’s scent in his nose. He wants to go _now_ , not wait for fucking _tea_.

Galahad turns, goes to the wardrobe, opens it, and takes a stack of clothes off the top shelf. “I believe these are yours,” he says calmly. “Change. We will have one cup, and then we’ll go rescue Eigyr and Morgan.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so awkward, went through a hell of a rough patch while writing this chapter.

They pad silently through the streets, Eggsy leading the way. He knows who to avoid, and who it is safe to be seen by. As they wind deeper and deeper into his home ground, he sticks more and more to the deepest shadows, the thickest crowds, the loudest markets. He sees far too many of Dean’s allies. They’re watching for something, for someone—for him.

Galahad follows him faithfully, making himself somehow invisible, or inconsequential, to almost everyone. Almost.

It’s when they’re passing the invisible boundary into Dog territory that Galahad is spotted. Eggsy whips around as he hears a furious bellow, and there are two Dogs and three Anvils shoving through the crowd, eyes fixed on Galahad. Galahad freezes, and a knife appears in his hand, hidden from the attackers—

Eggsy doesn’t think. He dashes in front of Galahad, grabs the knife, turns just in time, and jams the blade in an Anvil’s kidney. As the other grunts and stumbles, Eggsy swings his foot up and slams the toe of his boot into a Dog’s jewels. Someone tries to stab him; he grabs their wrist and twists it until they let go of their knife, then scoops up the weapon and slices them across the chest. Damn. He was aiming for their throat. Doesn’t matter. He switches the knife to his other hand and slams the hilt backhand against someone else’s jaw, and they drop like a stone. Where is the fifth attacker? Doesn’t matter. The one he’d kicked is back up—he lunges, plunges the blade into the man’s torso and wrenches upwards. The knife is unusually sharp; he actually makes a very long gash before it gets stuck. Doesn’t matter.

Then Eggsy stumbles back, breathing hard and spattered with blood. The men he’d cut are bleeding badly; that last one is an Anvil, and he’ll be dead in a few minutes. The man he’d knocked over is apparently unconscious.

The fifth man is dead, quietly, with a broken neck.

Eggsy looks around at the attackers, wide-eyed. Then he looks around at the circle of silent folk staring at him. They look at him. Then, suddenly, grins break out on most faces, and some people laugh and cheer, and there is a smattering of clapping.

“Work on that kick, rentboy!” someone calls.

“We’ll take care o’ this,” promises a big man with muscles like pythons, whom Eggsy remembers from the docks. “River ain’t that far.”

“Um,” Eggsy says.

An old woman cackles. “Take a gift when it’s given, rentboy,” she advises him, then shuffles back into the crowd. The dockhand gives a sharp whistle, and three more of his fellows appear. A few other strong folk step forward to deal with the mess.

A hand on Eggsy’s shoulder makes him jump and spin around. It’s only Galahad, though.

“Shall we leave?” the older man murmurs.

Eggsy nods mutely, and they continue, sticking to shadows.

It is later than he expected when they arrive on Eggsy’s street. That’s fine. Dean won’t be there; he’ll be off at a pub, getting drunk. Everything is fine.

How are they going to get out of here, though?

No, don’t think of it, don’t think of it. Not yet.

He knocks his personal pattern and waits. He gave mum his key before leaving last night; she’ll have to let him in, if she even remembers.

Of course she remembers. Why else would the door fly open, and she grab his arm to drag him inside? Galahad barely manages to slip through the door before mum shuts it hard and throws both lock and bolt. Then she turned and hugs Eggsy tightly. He hugs back, just as strongly. They stand there for a moment, just being grateful that each are alive and well.

Galahad clears his throat politely, and mum jumps. Eggsy is quick to reassure her; “Mum, it’s alright, this is the toff who took me in. We’re here to—what’s wrong?”

Mum turns her back on Galahad, her face stony. Galahad looks a little uncomfortable, but unsurprised. “I apologize for what I said seventeen years ago,” he says sincerely. “And I’m sorry I can’t undo it.”

Mum does not turn around, but she’s facing Eggsy, and he sees the anger and—yes, that is hate in her eyes—fade. She sighs, shoulders slumping, and replies quietly, “I accept your apologies.”

Eggsy, completely lost, looks from one to the other in utter bafflement. Mum sees, and reaches up to pat his cheek gently. “It doesn’t matter.” Her voice is sad, though her face smiles. It’s a thin, trembling little smile. “It was a long time ago.”

“So… a-are you coming with us?” Eggsy asks, still a little off-balance.

Mum’s smile fades. Galahad turns his head away from the familial scene and stares politely instead at the shuttered and bolted windows. Daisy in her cradle wakes, and begins immediately to cry.

“I can’t.” Mum goes over, picks up Daisy, and brings her back to where Eggsy still stands, frozen with contradictory emotions and instincts. Carefully, mum transfers her daughter to her son’s arms.

“She can, though.”

“Mum… no—“

“Sweetheart, I _can’t_ ,” mum repeats, her eyes starting to well up, her expression pained. “Please—just take your sister and run.”

Eggsy stares at her for a moment, then opens his mouth to argue—

There’s a knock on the door.

“Time to go,” Galahad comments.

Eggsy kisses his mother’s cheek. “I’ll come back. I promise.” Then he bolts for the back door. Galahad is right behind him.

~~~\0/~~~

There are too many things to think about, so Harry shuts down his emotions and thoughts altogether and focuses only on getting the hell out of there. They pause by the back fence, only long enough for the dogs to sniff Harry thoroughly and for Eggsy to make a rough sling out of his jacket for the infant whimpering in his arms; then they climb the fence, and find themselves in the tiniest of alleys. Eggsy knows exactly where he’s going; Harry follows, eyes and ears sharp for enemies.

The baby is surprisingly quiet. It seems to know that noise will attract attention, and attention is dangerous.

When they reach clearer, cleaner, more respectable streets, Harry gives a whistle, and in moments, Michael and his hansom are there to take them home. Eggsy again huddles in the corner; but this time he has a fretful baby to calm and quiet, and Harry is too deep in his own thoughts to try and help.

How is he supposed to care for a baby? He has none of the necessary tools, none of the training, none of the patience. Perhaps Eggsy is used to caring for a child, but Harry isn’t. Another adult would have actually been useful. Babies are too much trouble.

Although—how would he have been able to live with Lee’s wife under his roof?

How can he live with Lee’s son in his bed?

He’ll worry about that later. For now—what to do about the baby.

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy makes a little bed in a wicker basket that used to hold fancy dishes and manages to get Daisy to suck milk from a straw—she’s almost past the nursing stage, but it should make her feel a little better. She does seem a little less miserable when she’s finished, and Eggsy puts her basket on the bed, next to where he sleeps.

Then he sits near the foot of the bed with his head in his hands, fighting tears.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t protect mum. And now he’s already failing Daisy by being unable to care for her properly. And… and those men who’d attacked them… oh god, did he actually _kill_ them?

Everything’s falling apart and he doesn’t know what to do.

Galahad comes in softly and sets a tray of food on a small table that he pulls over to Eggsy. Eggsy stares at it dully, confused; what is he supposed to do with this? Is it for him or Daisy? Daisy can’t chew yet, though, so it must be for him.

“I am going to the meeting,” Galahad announces softly. “You, my lo—my dear, are to stay here for the night.”

Eggsy nods.

“Hmm.” Galahad sits next to him, on the opposite side from the sleeping Daisy, and puts one arm around his waist. Eggsy leans against him… then remembers, and straightens, pulling away, turning his head to look from the tray to his little sister. No, he will not be weak. Not in front of this man who has turned so much of his life upside down.

“You cannot force people to change their minds,” Galahad tells him, apparently not caring that he’s pulled away so quickly. “She will come or she will stay, but it will be her decision. You can only influence someone so much.”

“But it’s safer here,” Eggsy mutters, hugging himself. Is it safer here, though? _Is_ it safe, for a murderer? A murderer who can’t even protect those he loves?

Daisy is so peaceful when she’s asleep.

“She does not know that. Perhaps she is waiting until there is no hope. Some people are brave like that.”

Eggsy finally turns back to Galahad and stares at him, astonished. Galahad smiles very slightly. “To stay while there is hope is a kind of bravery,” he explains himself. “It seems foolish in her situation—but we are not her. We cannot understand why she hopes, or what she hopes for. So we wait.”

“What if she gets hurt?”

“And she’s not already hurt?

Eggsy can’t meet Galahad’s eyes. Galahad sighs, and squeezes Eggsy gently, before standing and saying, “For what it’s worth, I agree with you. But we must try to see it from her point of view as well, if only to understand. Now eat. I will be back soon.”

He leaves. Reluctantly, Eggsy cuts up whatever is on the plate in front of him and shovels it in his mouth. It’s meat, with some vegetables, and bread. That’s all he can identify.

There are so many things in his head and he can’t sort them out. Every time he closes his eyes he sees blood, and mum’s aggrieved face, and the inside of a carriage.

Daisy wakes, and begins to cry. Eggsy leaps to his feet and bends over her, murmuring soothingly, glad to have a distraction, distressed that she’s unhappy. What’s wrong, little flower? Please let him help, please let him fix it. He needs to help someone. Please don’t cry, little flower.

~~~\0/~~~

Harry reports to Arthur in a thoughtful mood.

He has not slept for a very long time—he’s lost track of waking and sleeping—and he barely remembers having eaten some toast while preparing Eggsy’s dinner. There is adrenaline buzzing in his veins and he has not found a proper outlet yet. Maybe when he comes home Eggsy will be calm enough to consent.

The meeting… did not go well. He hadn’t needed to lie about the fact that he and Eggsy had “run into trouble” and that they’d taken Eggsy’s sister to Harry’s home, but no one had believed that he’s trying to keep both of Michelle’s children safe. He’d held to his temper so tightly he feels nauseous. He suspects some of his fellow conspirators think he fancies Michelle. Not a good thing, but better than the truth. He spoke smoothly, yet with an edge that, eventually, convinced them all to leave him alone before he showed his anger.

How was he supposed to gain their confidence when they wouldn’t accept him?

Thus the thoughtful mood.

He walks, to get out some of the adrenaline, no matter that he’s less than fresh when he arrives at Savile Row. Thankfully, no one sees the disheveled man in the dark coat slip through the door, nor how the tailor on duty bows as if this disreputable person is, in the tailor’s opinion, equal to royalty.

“Arthur’s in the dining room, sir.”

“He always is,” Harry sighs, but mounts the stairs, wondering idly if Eggsy’s sister is still at the age where she tends to wake at ungodly hours and scream until attended to. He will be very unhappy if she is.

Arthur is in his dressing gown. He’s obviously readying himself for bed, and Harry is only a little resentful. Arthur never technically has to leave the club; everyone else is required to live in different sectors of London, except Merlin. But at least they all have a bit of privacy that way.

“How was the meeting, Galahad?” Arthur greets him genially.

“It was… interesting,” Harry answers cordially. He then launches into a revised but thorough report of what he’s learned. Slowly, he is beginning to puzzle something out, something that he dares not tell Arthur; this is not a mere group of grumblers. This is a true infant rebellion. They are gathering resources, they are constantly recruiting, and they are garnering support. They are still small—so painfully small. Harry wants desperately to help them grow. He wants to see what havoc they will wreak when—not if, _when_ —they lead their army up the streets to Parliament.

But he can’t help. So he will do his best not to hinder.

After some discussion, Arthur decides he does not need further reports. They are no threat. Harry is welcome to continue frequenting the meetings, but he need not report on their doings in person. Oh, and is there truth to the rumors that he’s installed a mistress?

Harry does not blush easily, but he comes painfully close. How did…? Were they seen? Were they heard? No, they couldn’t possibly have been observed. Harry made certain of it.

Arthur takes his silence as affirmative, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m glad you’ve gotten over that… phase,” he comments delicately. “Do make sure not to be too distracted.”

Phase. As if Harry is a mere child, one who doesn’t understand the difference between man and woman. Harry’s hands are hidden in his lap, so it does not matter that they curl into fists that long to land in Arthur’s doughy face. Why did he ever confide in this toad?

“I won’t be,” he promises quietly.

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy sleeps deeply until Daisy wakes him again. This time it’s her nappy; Eggsy doesn’t know what to do with it, so he takes it out in the garden and rinses it under the pump, then comes back in and starts a fire, spreading the cloth on the bricks before the fireguard and hoping that would dry it fast enough. He doesn’t have any extra napkins, and he isn’t sure Galahad would approve of him just using one from the kitchen—

Wait. Why _can’t_ he just use one of those things? They’re square and cloth and surely Daisy won’t need another change before her proper one was dry.

She’s still crying. Eggsy makes a decision, and runs downstairs to fetch one of the linen squares. But then he sees the small towels folded in the drawer along with them, and grabs one of them instead. They can soak up more, and surely they’re cheaper and easier to find replacements for.

When Daisy’s diaper is changed, she needs feeding. Eggsy brings her downstairs and sets to making something for her to eat.

Throwing open the pantry makes him want to weep. Such _food_ , such _plenty_. And it’s all free of mold or maggots, none burned, all fresh and good and edible. There are even _spices_. He grabs rice, and the single bottle of milk left in the icebox, and the whole jar of cinnamon, and rushes to make pudding for his sister. When she begins to cry, slapping her little palms on the padding in her basket, he feeds her some milk, to tide her over, and cradles her against his shoulder, murmuring silly things while he cooks.

Rice pudding is done. He puts in the tiniest pinch of cinnamon and puts it in a bowl, then sits with Daisy on his knee and feeds her carefully. He dares not let her eat too much or too fast; he’s seen her vomit a full three feet, and it is not an experience either of them want to repeat. When she’s done, she smiles up at Eggsy, content it seems, and laughs. Eggsy smiles back. Like he promised when she was first born, he’d never stop loving and caring for her. She’s his sister. Blood of his blood.

Blood—

He bites his lip fiercely and it stops trembling.

Daisy has never been a child who played, exactly, and Eggsy is too old to remember what counts as playing for babies. He gives her the single stale thing, the hard heel of a loaf of bread ( _a_ loaf, not _the_ last loaf; there is more beautifully baked bread behind it on the shelf), to chew on while he searches for more appropriate materials.

He can’t find any, in the whole house. Damn it. Though what was he expecting? It seems no one but mum and Eggsy know that the only problem caused by teething was pain, and mum said that Eggsy’s enthusiastic chewing of literally anything when he was small had been a better help than slicing gums would have been. There is nothing to chew, but there is pain medicine in a small cabinet, so Eggsy measures out the tiniest of doses and coaxes Daisy, with much pleading and promising of things he could not give, to let him dribble some on her little red gums. As soon as he takes the spoon away she smacks her lip, makes a face, and jams the bread in her mouth again.

Eggsy begins to have a relieved thought, but he quickly silences it, in case Daisy picks up on it. When she begins to look sleepy again, he takes her in her basket back up to the bedroom… but he can’t sleep any more. And he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His eyes fall on the bookshelf. That should be engrossing enough. He doesn’t know much, but surely he can practice what he knows.

~~~\0/~~~

“BUGGER this!”

Harry, quietly closing the door behind him, sighs in resignation. It appears that Eggsy has been frustrated by something in the library, and he has a guess what it is.

Eggsy stomps out of the library, scowling fiercely, clutching a book in each fist. “What the _hell_ do these words mean?!” he half-shouts, waving the books furiously. “Why ain’t you got anything that talks proper English?!”

“Because I am not just starting out,” Harry replies calmly. “Which words are frustrating you in particular?”

“ _All_ of them!”

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy has fallen in love with the dictionary.

Galahad has several different kinds of dictionary, and he has one nearly untouched copy of a simplified dictionary that he claims was for children. Eggsy doesn’t care. Even though he can’t recognize most words by sight yet, he knows what they are and what they mean, as long as Harry is there to say them aloud. And they all link together, every definition pointing the way to more, and more, and more, until the web of connections circles back around and returns to the word he’d started with. It’s enough to make him tear up with happiness. Soon he’s completely forgotten what had made him so angry, indeed, has forgotten everything, and is thoroughly absorbed into the beautiful spirals of his mother-tongue.

So absorbed is he that he almost doesn’t notice the tiny smile on Galahad’s face, or the warm look in his eyes. He does notice, though, because he has to keep looking up and blurting a word aloud that he finds particularly beautiful. Harry gently corrects him on pronunciation and helps explain the definition, and continues writing as Eggsy absorbs this magical gateway.

“You know,” Harry says slowly, while Eggsy mutters to himself, trying to work out how to say another new word, “There are things called encyclopedias, as well.”

“Do they have words in them?” Eggsy asks eagerly, still dazed and not quite coherent yet.

“Words, concepts, things, places—“

A baby’s wail cuts through the air like a newly-sharpened cleaver. Eggsy jumps to his feet, dictionary tumbling from his lap, and runs for the stairs.

Daisy needs another change. Eggsy complies, wincing at the soiled towel and sighing in relief to discover that her original napkin, which he’d boiled like mum had taught him, in the washtub in the shed, is dry and ready for replacing. The soggy remnants of her chewing-bread go in the fire.

Almost as soon as he finishes pinning the nappy and getting her calm again, he’s hit by a wave of emotions and exhaustion, and he barely manages to fall on to the bed before sleep takes him.

~~~\0/~~~

Harry decides to try and find a nanny; and if he can’t find anyone suitable, he’ll ask around and get some advice from other parents. He wants, no, he _needs_ to help with the care of that child. It fills him with dread, that thought. But it is his responsibility.

So he write letters and notes, asking for recommendations, and when he’s done he sets them aside in a neat stack, and goes upstairs to ask Eggsy if he has any special requirements that he should add.

When he opens the door, it is to see Eggsy passed out on the bed with his arm around the basket in which his sister is lying. She turns her head and stares at Harry with wide grey-blue eyes rimmed with red, probably from crying, and kicks twice. Harry feels distinctly uncomfortable.

“Hello,” he says softly, only a little awkward.

She makes no sound, continuing to stare.

Carefully, Harry sidles across the room to the bed, and holds out his hand to her as if to shake, for lack of any better gesture. The baby eyes his fingers, then appears to deem them acceptable, for she reaches up and grabs his little finger firmly with her tiny hand. And then she smiles, and makes a little cooing giggle, and Harry relaxes a little.

Maybe babies aren’t so terrifying after all.

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy wakes from the most violent nightmares he’s ever had and is greeted with the sight of Harry sitting in a chair next to the bed, Daisy on his lap, letting her chew the end of his cravat. For a moment, Eggsy is dazed by the flip from pain and terror to peace and sweetness; then he hiccups, and when Harry looks up sharply Eggsy hides his face in the pillow, ashamed of the tears slowly leaking from his eyes.

The creak of the chair, the change of slope as Harry sits on the side of the bed. “What’s wrong, dearest?” Harry asks softly, almost tenderly.

Eggsy shakes his head, still hiding, even more mortified. He can’t tell him. He can’t tell Harry that one of the people that hurt him in his dreams had Harry’s face.

It hadn’t been him—he _knows_ it hadn’t been him—but they wore his face, twisted cruelly, and if he tells—

“Was it a bad dream?”

Eggsy nods very slightly and presses further into the pillow, even though that makes it hard to breathe.

“You’re safe here. Both of you. I promise.” Fingertips rest lightly on the back of his hand, fisted on the blankets. “No one can hurt you here.”

“I know,” he mumbles. They’ve had plenty of time to find Eggsy, and yet they haven’t. There must be some kind of magic on this house, that no one has tracked him. Yet.

“I’ll cook us breakfast. Remember, you’re safe.”

Daisy squeals indignantly as she is laid beside her brother again and the fascinating chew-toy is taken away, but Eggsy unfolds one arm and wraps it around her and she settles, grumbling. Soon they won’t be able to distract her; she’ll start crying for mum, and Eggsy won’t be good enough at all. Is mum alright? Is she unhurt? Has Dean decided to sell her too? The thought makes Eggsy’s blood run cold. No—no, she’ll fight. She’ll fight and escape and surely she’ll find her way here, or to Nanny Nora’s boarding house, where the women are fierce and know how to break a man’s spine if he tries to force his way in. Mum can take care of herself.

But Eggsy swore he’d protect her. It doesn’t matter that it was years and years ago and he barely remembers, the point is that he _does_ remember, and it fills him to the brim with shame and guilt.

Eventually he cries himself out, and Daisy falls into a drowse. When Eggsy can stand without sobbing, he gets up, and shuffles to the loo, turning his head pointedly away from the locked closet as he passes.

After taking care of the necessaries, he stumps downstairs. Wondrous aromas are emanating from the kitchen, and his stomach reminds him that he is already getting used to bigger meals eaten more often. How can a toff know how to cook such good things? That’s what they hired other people for. But when Eggsy rounds the corner, Harry is bustling around the kitchen like… well, like he knows what he is doing. Thinking of the meals he’d made for Eggsy before, Eggsy feels anticipation stir under the heavy blanket of numbness.

“Can I help?” he hears himself ask.

“Of course,” Harry answers, without turning around. “Could you fetch some bread please?”


	4. Chapter 4

“There’s a woman as wants to see ye,” the urchin says.

Harry flips the child a shilling. “Thank you.”

It has been three days since they brought Daisy home. Arthur finally sent a few agents around to pick up the artifacts, and Eggsy has come to a few of the rebellion’s meetings. But Eggsy and Harry have agreed that he is not fit to be presented to anyone of Harry’s set yet, and the gangs are out for blood; therefore he has been hiding from everyone else. It’s not hard. He refuses to leave Daisy alone for long, and she’s happy with an open window if she needs fresh air.

Harry, however, has duties to perform. They are mostly small things, thank the Lord, easily doable here in London, and that leaves him with enough time to make inquiries on Eggsy’s behalf.

The moment he enters the police station, the woman sitting on a bench near the door shoots to her feet and demands, “Where are they?”

“They’re safe, Mrs. Baker,” Harry assures Eggsy’s mother. Waving to the hall, “There is a room where we can talk, privately, and I will tell you what has transpired so far.”

She glares at him suspiciously, but clutches her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and follows him as he leads the way through the station to one of the unused offices. Harry does not lock the door when he closes it behind them, but he does make sure it is latched tightly. He waits until Michelle is seated before he himself takes a chair—not behind the desk. He doesn’t want to frighten her. Although from the glare she levels at him, she probably wouldn’t have been afraid at all.

“What have you done with my babies?” she demands.

“I’ve been letting them live in my house,” he answers. “Your daughter is fine, though I fear she misses you. Your son is doing his best by her. He has not been found or followed, I and my friends have made sure of that.”

Michelle continues to eye him, measuringly, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or not. Harry keeps his gaze calm and level, and does not attempt to look encouraging or trustworthy. That will only make her even more suspicious.

“I want to see them,” she says abruptly.

Harry nods. “I have a hackney waiting outside for me. Would you like to visit them now, or tonight?”

“Now.”

~~~\0/~~~

Eggsy is cleaning Daisy after a lunchtime tantrum when he hears the door open and Galahad say, “—already eaten, but you are welcome to—“

“I’m not hungry,” mum’s voice answers tartly. “I just want to see my—“

“MUM!”

Eggsy snatches Daisy up from her chair and pelts out of the room, skidding on the wood floor; Daisy’s shriek of indignation becomes a squeal of joy, and both children reach for their mother before Eggsy almost slams into her; she laughs and hugs them both, kissing Eggsy’s cheek and Daisy’s forehead, and in the relieved babbling Galahad slips past them and vanishes into the library.

The little family retreats to Eggsy’s favorite sitting room, the one with the little waving cats and statues of the happy man (Galahad called him “Budai”), and just sit for a moment. Daisy grabs her mother’s braid and gnaws it happily.

“This is very nice,” mum says.

“Yeah,” Eggsy replies.

“Is he feeding you up?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s good to you both?”

“Yeah. I think he’s scared of Dais, but yeah.”

“Has Dean…?”

Eggsy grins. “No,” he answers.

Mum’s expression relaxes into an answering smile, and Daisy chuckles. “Oh, thank god,” mum whispers. Then she takes a deep breath and says, “I don’t think I can go home tonight.”

“We got room,” Eggsy offers immediately—and then he realizes what he’s just said, and stammers, “I mean, Galahad’s got room, there’s one upstairs that’s big enough for you and Dais.”

Mum looks at him for a moment, amused and bemused, then asks, “Where do _you_ sleep?”

With Galahad, of course. They share the bed now, though Galahad has refused to lay a hand on him, for which he is grateful and relieved. Somehow they always end up closer together in the morning than they start out the night before. “There’s three bedrooms, it’s amazing. I’ve got the smallest one. You can stay in the other—I’ll go tell him.”

Eggsy bounces to his feet, but mum grabs his hand and he freezes. Five days is not enough to kill the instincts that kept him alive for so long. Mum takes a breath, then tells him determinedly, “Love, I know you—you said he—you don’t have to lie about it. I can stay down here.”

“We haven’t—mum, it’s not like that,” he insists, though he can feel a blush burning his cheeks. It’s not like that _yet_. “He’s givin’ me asylum, but that’s all.”

“Asylum?” Mum repeats blankly. “But you en’t mad.”

“No, asylum means safety, refuge, gettin’ away from dangerous things. I read it in a book. See, he’s teachin’ me to read better, but we ain’t slept together the whole time I been here, and we ain’t gonna. It’ll be alright. I promise."

She eyes him for a moment. Then she sighs, and lets go of his hand. “If you say so, love.”

~~~\0/~~~

Harry lays down his pen and tries not to look as disappointed as he feels. He likes sleeping in the same bed. “Alright, if she doesn’t mind. I’ll lay a fire, you go ahead and feed her—what?” he asks, surprised, as Eggsy ducks his head. “What is it?”

“Nothin’, just—you always wanna feed people first, and it’s funny,” Eggsy answers, a bit awkwardly; but he’s smiling a little too. Harry is pleased to see it.

“I know what hunger is, and I never liked it. So how can I let anyone in my care go hungry as well?” Harry stands and comes over to, very lightly, kiss Eggsy’s forehead. “I will go make room. You go take care of your mum.”

~~~\0/~~~

It is very late when Eggsy, after lying in the tiny room for hours, decides to go back and spend the night with Galahad. It’s warmer, for one thing, and the weather is growing colder. So he slips out of bed, sneaks down the hall, tiptoes into Galahad’s room, and wriggles under the blankets with him. After a moment, he squirms closer, just enough that his elbow is barely touching Galahad’s back, and almost immediately falls asleep.

He wakes immediately when he hears Daisy beginning to cry, and is halfway out of bed when Galahad reaches over and touches his arm, and murmurs fuzzily, “Can’t her mother take care of it?”

“I gotta check,” Eggsy whispers, and, he doesn’t know why, he puts his hand over Galahad’s for a brief moment before sliding fully out from under the covers and walking to the door. Even as he steps out of the room, the crying stops, and he can hear mum begin to sing, very softly. She hasn’t sung in a long time. It must be alright.

So he goes back to bed, and doesn’t mind when Galahad actually turns over and rests his arm over Eggsy, a little protectively. It’s nice to be protected sometimes.

He sleeps very well that night.

The next morning, he wakes at dawn and discovers that he is snuggled quite close to Galahad, whose arms are tight around him and yet is not as frightening as any other human being would be. Eggsy closes his eyes again when he realizes this and decides not to ponder. It’s wonderful, being able to lie abed for longer than he ever has in his life. Every morning since he’s come here, he’s laid in the warm, soft bed and cried. Well, there is no reason to cry anymore. So he won’t.

In fact, there’s no reason to lie in bed forever either. He wants mum to like it here. Well, why not make a breakfast to rival last night’s supper? Eggsy sits up, squeezing Galahad’s hand absently, and slides out of bed again.

When mum comes down the stairs, yawning and cradling Daisy against her shoulder, Eggsy has already begun his ambitious project. He’s getting much better at the kind of breakfasts that Galahad calls “full English” and Eggsy calls “enough to feed the whole fucking neighborhood”.

“What’s all this?” mum asks fuzzily.

“Breakfast,” Eggsy answers cheerfully.

Mum gives him a long, measuring look. Eggsy just beams at her. Look, mum! He’s learning to cook, too!

And today is also the day Galahad is calling on an actual tailor friend of his to measure Eggsy for his first set of new clothes. He’s just been wearing Galahad’s castoffs, which are all too big, but that’s why there are belts, and he can roll up his cuffs easily enough. The thought of brand new clothes makes him nervous. Already he’s being spoiled, and every gift is another rock chaining him down. He hasn’t even repaid Galahad in the way he’s supposed to yet.

The sausages are about to burn. He stirs them hastily and checks on the rest of his cuisine.

Mum, Daisy, and Eggsy are sitting down to breakfast when Galahad, fully dressed and neatly put together, enters the dining room. “I’m late,” he states flatly when the Unwin trio look up at him. He grabs some toast, touches Eggsy’s shoulder, and leaves. The snick of the lock in the door is actually quite loud in the quiet.

Mum gives Eggsy another weighing look. He doesn’t notice, staring at what can be seen of the front door and trying not to feel disappointed. The breakfast was for Galahad as much as it was for mum.

But he can’t mope, there’s food to be eaten. So he continues shoving eggs and bacon into his mouth and washing it down with cup after cup of tea saturated with sugar.

The morning is spent talking. There is much to discuss. First there is news to share: the dead Dogs and Anvils have been reported, but no one cares, except the respective gangs. The police should, but someone told them not to. Mum gives Eggsy a Look; he opens his eyes very wide and looks innocent.

Dean is still furious, and has sworn revenge, which Eggsy had expected. He had not expected for mum to say also that some of his customers are angry and have had words with Dean for letting him be “bought” and spirited away.

“Huh.” Eggsy bounces Daisy on his knee, and she laughs, biting the little wooden cross Harry dug out of hiding for her to chew. “No accounting for some people.”

“No, not at all.” Mum sighs, then asks, “What is he like?”

“Um… he’s…” Eggsy hesitates, trying to think of a way to describe Galahad without sounding forced. “He’s nice enough. I told you he’s teachin’ me to read. I’m learnin’ how to cook, too. He said I’m nearly as good as him.”

“Do you like it here?”

Eggsy takes a moment, and actually thinks about it.

Well, he’s eating well, and sleeping better, and he hasn’t had to let anyone fuck him for almost a full week. He’s wearing warm clothes with no patches, and soon he’ll be getting all new clothes made just for him. He’s learning many fascinating things. And he’s angry. He’s so angry.

“No,” he answers his mother, hugging his little sister, staring at the floor. “No, I don’t. I owe him too much. And he keeps saying it’s just what _he_ owes _me_ , but it ain’t. I done nothing but eat his food and get him in trouble. He’s helping fund the meetings, too, and I owe him for that. I don’t like it here. But I can’t just pike off with the silver an’ lay up until he forgets about me.”

“I don’t think he would,” mum murmurs, too quietly for Eggsy to hear.

“I can’t come home, can’t hole up in the usual places, can’t—“ An idea suddenly strikes him, and he sits bolt upright. But before he can voice it, the front door opens and closes, and Galahad calls, “Eggsy? Are you available?”

Eggsy transfers Daisy to his mum’s lap and goes to stand in the sitting room doorway, bracing himself against the jamb as he eyes Galahad’s companion. The other is roughly Eggsy’s height, an older man with two thick books under one arm and dressed somberly. There are pinpricks on his fingers, and his clothing, while perhaps a bit cheaper than Galahad’s, is obviously lovingly made and at the height of men’s fashion. This is the tailor, then.

“This is my associate, William,” Galahad introduces. “William, here’s the challenge I promised you.”

“Not much of a challenge,” William replies, looking Eggsy over minutely. “Why’ve you dressed him in such rags?”

“They were the only ones that fit,” Galahad answers, the corner of his mouth twitching, as Eggsy reflexively looks down at himself, wondering what about his flash togs could possibly count as “rags” to anyone. “You can have the library to work your magic. Eggsy?”

Eggsy cautiously steps forward and follows the little old man to the library. He casts one questioning look at Galahad, who nods slightly and gives the tiniest of reassuring smiles.

First, William sits Eggsy down and opens his books. The largest one is all sketches and drawings of different articles of clothing, with indecipherable notes beside each. The smaller of the two holds little squares of fabric, again with strange words attached. Then William “helps” Eggsy choose a plethora of differently styled clothing by saying, “This would look best on you.”

“Alright,” Eggsy answers every time.

Third, fabrics. Here, Eggsy is better at choosing for himself. He gravitates mostly to dark blues and greys, but William convinces him that a jacket in deep green would look well on him as well; he prefers softer fabrics, especially the ones so soft his rough fingertips rasp when he strokes them, because it is the height of luxury to him to not be constantly itchy. William approves of most of his choices, though once or twice he gives an especially long, calculating look. Well, he isn’t going to be the one wearing any of it, so why should he care?

Fourth, William has Eggsy stand, and, with a speed that makes Eggsy blink, measures him with a length of thin, knotted rope; arms, legs, chest, waist, neck, wrists, everything. Everything is written down in the book of patterns, on a page already full of numbers and names. It’s all rather baffling.

William calls in Galahad, and they talk quietly where Eggsy can’t hear. He scowls at them, then turns back to the book of drawings. He doesn’t like most of the things shown on its pages. They all look rather impractical and silly. Then again, gentry never actually _do_ anything, so maybe impractical fashion is just one of the ways they try to give meaning to their sad, empty, hopeless lives.

That thought makes him smile.

~~~\0/~~~

Harry Hart introduced his paramour to Society by taking him to the opera. At first, nobody knew who the handsome young man was. A long lost relative? A previously unknown by-blow? A ward, the son of a friend?

But it was soon clear from the way they spoke to each other, the looks Mr. Hart bestowed upon the other, the one fleeting glance caught by a discerning gossip-monger of a stolen kiss, that Mr. Hart was utterly besotted and the young man was very pleased with himself for the besotting. Although his fascination with the opera was obvious, it was also noticeable that he often turned to talk to Mr. Hart, who always listened and answered with a sincerity heretofore unseen in public.

“How can he live with himself, bringing that— _thing_ out in polite company?” an elderly matron grumbled behind her fan.

“Oh, do stop, mama,” her daughter answered absently, watching the stage, not the opera boxes. “It’s not worse than some of the mistresses other old men you can name insist on taking out in public.”

“Roxanne! Watch your tongue!”

“It’s the truth.” But Roxanne said no more, and gave only one curious glance at the box where Mr. Hart sat calmly back in his seat, and his lover leaned forward, intent on the story unfolding onstage. It was none of her business, just as it wasn’t any of her mama’s business; but gossip drives Society, and this… this was going to be considerably more than a nine days’ wonder.

~~~\0/~~~

“I do believe that was an enormous success,” Galahad announces thoughtfully.

Eggsy doesn’t care. He’s still a little dizzy. There had been so much flash, so many gentry and toffs and addlepates, he could barely keep track, and now he’s forgotten every name and every face.

But he remembers the opera. He remembers the singing, the gestures, the beautiful costumes and backgrounds; he remembers being caught up in the music, feeling like his insides were vibrating along with the notes. He remembers his sudden wish that it would never end, that this would continue unto death, the music, the acting, the chaste little kisses when no one was looking…

“Can we go again?” he asks eagerly.

“To the opera?” Galahad replies, startled.

“Yeah.”

“Hm. I don’t see why not. Tomorrow will be an encore; would you like to see it again?”

“Yeah!”

Galahad smiles, a little indulgently, as Eggsy launches into a full explanation of what he’d liked about it and why and all the reasons they should go back as often as possible. He doesn’t mention that he’d liked the kissing, though.

When they return home, the air is warm and light and smells of fresh baking. Mum has taken over most of the cooking, claiming neither Eggsy nor Galahad truly understood how to make a proper supper and that she wants to earn her keep somehow. Galahad had been disgruntled; Eggsy had rejoiced, because no matter how much he likes the fancy things Galahad cooks, he gets the feeling it’s all to show off, and he’d much prefer good, simple, wholesome stuff. And mum’s bread is always better than Galahad’s.

Eggsy sniffs the air hopefully as he yanks off his boots, and Galahad smiles again. “Go tell your mother we’re home,” he instructs, “And tell me if I should fake a stomach ache or not.”

Just as Eggsy pulls a face, mum calls, “Eggsy, love, is that you?”

“Yeah!” Eggsy hangs up his coat and trots down the hall to the dining room. He’s greeted by Daisy, crawling among the legs of the chairs, who squeals and flails one tiny hand at him. He grins and crouches to pick her up. “Hullo, Dais. Mum, Galahad wants to know if he should be sick.”

“That’s not what I said!” Galahad protests irritably from down the hall.

Mum smiles as she takes bread from the oven. She’d been cautiously delighted to discover that Galahad refuses to buy bread whenever possible, which means he always has the proper ingredients, and now there is fresh bread that is never burned or dry or under-baked almost every day. “He’ll like this stew or I’ll paddle ‘im,” she teases, setting the bread aside to rest. “How was the show?”

“It was fantastic! I don’t remember what the story was, but mum, you shoulda heard ‘em singing, it was better than anything back home, even if it was all in Italian, and no one was actually listening, they were all talking—“

“It’s a very famous opera,” Galahad points out, stepping through the doorway. “Everyone we spoke to has already seen it. Tomorrow we’ll keep the curtains closed, so we won’t be interrupted as much. It smells wonderful, Michelle.”

“Good,” she answers serenely. “Will you eat it?”

“Absolutely.”

“He had too much to drink again,” Eggsy confides. Daisy laughs as her mother smiles again and Galahad shoots him a disapproving look.

“Ah, a package arrived for you, Mr. Hart,” mum adds, nodding towards the back door. “From a man who called himself Percival.”

“Thank you. I’ll be in the library.”

Eggsy tries not to be disappointed as Galahad scoops up the box and retreats to the library. He wants to talk about the opera some more. That can wait, though. Tonight, when he gives Galahad the thanks he promised.

This evening, he’d sacrificed a meeting with the rebellion to see an opera. He had good reason, though, as he’d promised; he now has in his possession several small items of great value, and he has retained a sense of who to strike hardest when the time comes. He’s quite proud of himself.

One bauble, a thin golden bracelet with some green gems on it, he slips to mum as he hugs her. She opens her mouth to protest, closes it, tucks the bracelet in her pocket.

“Tell me about the opera,” she says instead.

~~~\0/~~~

Harry is surprised by Eggsy’s enthusiasm tonight, but he certainly does not mind it. He especially likes the little sounds Eggsy makes; the tiniest of whimpers, the softest of moans, the stifled gasps and happy exclamations. All sound surprised, and excited, and Harry is intent on helping Eggsy make more of these noises.

When they’re done, Eggsy snuggles against Harry’s chest, and Harry can’t stop smiling. It has been far too long. Maybe—maybe they can do it again tomorrow night. That would be wonderful.

“So is it the same show tomorrow?” Eggsy rasps drowsily.

“Yes,” Harry answers, still a little breathless.

“Will you kiss me at all the same times?”

“If you want me to.”

“Good.”

As Eggsy slips slowly into sleep, Harry lays awake, electric with plans and an intense, warm, enveloping emotion that makes his heart ache in the best possible way. He will not name it. But he knows it. And he welcomes it.


End file.
